Sunday, November 23, 2014

Good Morning Jessicca

Letter to my DaughterSunday, 22 November

Good Morning
Jessicca…

The 7 AM
meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous in Pacific Beach was the place to be Monday
through Friday when I first caught hold of sobriety and it probably still is,
despite the fact that you now have to smoke outside its cramped room. It extends the entire end of a small parking
lot and has several windowed garage doors side by side facing away from the
street. The tables inside are parked end
to end to make a single row, surrounded with metal folding chairs. An enormous coffee urn sits alone near the
double-door entryway at the north end of the building. I made this clubhouse for starting-over
drunks the place to be each weekday morning for a good five years and never
once arrived without the coffee always ready to serve – strong black with a
corrosive jolt of caffeine. Its heavy
aroma virtually invited everyone sitting round the table to light up their
favorite tobacco product. The room
quickly took on the uncertain air of a San Francisco fog. If you preferred your clothes not stink of
smoke you could always listen from the parking lot, just outside the door.

Someone before
my time named the meeting the Dawn Patrol. Most meetings tend to muster sameness in the
congregation: tenderloin drunks forever
trying to string together two weeks of sobriety; lunch hour office workers in
business appropriate attire; machinists and exiles from country-western bars;
country club types recovering from their furtive, seedy ways. If we have access to wheels we prefer to pick
our community for drying out. The Dawn
Patrol was notably eclectic. There was a
smattering of those stepping in business slacks from pricey new cars. There were those arriving in cars that seemed
to run only on their owner’s desperate prayers.
There were gamblers and homeless housewives. There was the occasional snob – threadbare but
always casting before them a steadfast air of dignified certainty. There was the goateed accountant, always a
bit surprised he was still alive and available to be seen. There was the young man drifting up from the
beach, thought to be in a losing battle with aids, but that story never came
from his lips. Eventually he disappeared,
as did others. There was the deep
sputter of motorcycles when the 5th
Step bikers rolled up and parked near the entrance. They added a swashbuckling dash. They were always ready to step in and keep
the meeting real. Cut the
I’m OK, You’re OK, sandal-soled, tree-hugging philosophizing crap. This is about life and death people. I’ve buried too many of my brothers on
account of this disease. Get your head
out of your big-assed lalaland. Staying
alive is about doing the Steps, finding a sponsor and not picking up that first
drink – for any reason. You can’t go
home for Christmas? Your wife left you
for another man? No one loves you? Boo hoo – I’m all choked up. Guess what?
You deserve it. You’re a lying, thieving
drunk just like me… trying to stay sober.
Stop sniveling. You’re lucky to
be alive.

Religion,
talk of God, wasn’t much tolerated at this meeting. No one credited Christ for their long-term
sobriety. Turning your life over to a
Higher Power often meant little more than taking hold of a rabbit’s foot. That’s not always the case. I avoided the Jesus meetings if at all
possible. God doesn’t save good people from
dying in plane crashes or car wrecks. Why
bother with performing miracles for drunks that don’t take responsibility for
their own sobriety? That message seemed
too often lost with people believing that the loving hand of Christ will see
them through. Frankly I never saw this
attitude as an act of faith. It was
hoping for an easy way out. The easy way
is more like heading out the door. Walk
to the nearest liquor store. Check the
label of your beverage, making sure you get the most alcohol for your buck. Find a bush to sit behind. Now proceed to drink yourself sober. If that doesn’t work, there’s always a
meeting at hand where you can keep coming back.